Tag Archives: staker

When I worked in the service industry, I used to hear from a lot of people that the number one faux-pas of the job was to openly discuss politics. The implicit reason, of course, was that you never know who you’re talking to, and you might make somebody angry. Continue reading →

Not only do yuppies try to shape the grooming landscape, but they try to replace our Pit-bulls and Rottweilers with this genetic abortion.

As my hetero-life-mate, there are many reasons why I love Staker. I have known him for nearly 17 years, and I remember vividly the day we met in our little league coach’s apartment in the Old Colony Housing Projects. But of all the reasons why I would love this hairy little grease-ball, I would have to say that I love him most for his ability to piss people off, and attract more violent energy than a hillbilly wearing steel overhauls.

What can also be a tragic character flaw really pays off here on The Shack, and the amount of heat we’ve received for his March 11th post, Passing Judgment on Fenway Bark, has lead us to make new enemeies of Zeltsonic proportions (mainly because his post is number 6 when you Google “fenway bark.” That can’t be good for business. Oops!). Now we don’t really care if you take your dog to a spa, just like we don’t care if you go down to Bella Sante on Newbury Street for a botox and Brazillian. The point is that there are many more practical uses for the limited property here in South Boston.

It’s 1:34 in the morning and Rick Ross is on Jimmy Fallon. We would like to introduce you to someone who is far superior to Rick Ross and Jimmy Fallon. His name is Nacko Ball. He is not from Southie, but he fulfills our minimum requirement of 1/8th Cherokee. Here is his statement:

Been in NYC for less than a day. I had to pay $8 for a PBR tall boy. Everyone is either a Mets fan or a Yankees fan. It’s like Hell if Hell had great Thai food.

So it’s a Sunday afternoon, and you’re relaxing in your mahogany man-cave, flipping through your hand-copied 17th-century manuscript of the Book of Kells. Suddenly, the doorbell rings; it’s Burt Reynolds, the Old Spice Guy, and the Most Interesting Man in the World. Later, you’re two or three hands into a high-stakes game of hold ‘em – the $1 chips are worth $1,000 and the $10 chips are classic American sports cars – when Burt Reynolds suggests that he’s a little thirsty. Obviously, no standard beverage will do. You reach into a jewel-encrusted liquor cabinet, and you pull out one of these:

This is extreme Scottish beer maker BrewDog’s newest creation, “The End of History.” It’s a 55% ABV beer that combines high-octane badassery with small mammal taxidermy to create the most manly beverage possible. It’s also the Sugar Shack’s newest endorsement, despite costing $765. It’s named after a work of high philosophy called The End of History and the Last Man by Francis Fukuyama, and it’s probably bottled only by Navy SEALs who have summited Everest and made out with Queen Rania of Jordan at the same time.

The only reason why this post isn’t categorized under “Beer Reviews” is because we will never be able to buy it. You can’t see me, but I’m weeping softly into a throw pillow right now. Are you there, Burt? It’s me, Staker! Please, please bring this beer to us. Please. I’ll never ask for anything again.

About two years ago when Drizzle and I simultaneously decided to go back to school, we knew that it was going to suck. We knew it was going to mean doing twice as much as we did in college in half the time, and we knew that the interest on our loans, new and old, would continue to accrue while we were doing it. But we did it anyway.